We need to talk about Scott
by bitter-alisa
Summary: Raven is missing in action and Punk finds himself on the mission of bringing him back. M for swearing and slash.
1. The Mission

Chapter 1: The Mission

In hindsight, trying to match Dreamer beer for Pepsi was a huge mistake, especially with so much at stake. The man must have some superhuman stomach, liver and bladder and hell knows what else, because Punk is beaten way faster than he would like to ever admit to anyone.

He is not entirely sure why Dreamer deemed him worthy of this bet in the first place. Of all people, Punk seems to be the _last _candidate to pick to go and try to talk Raven into coming back to the land of the living; surely, old man has friends, well, maybe not friends – it's _Raven _they're talking about here – but at least people he dislikes less than him.

Dreamer doesn't really offer much of an explanation when asked, he mumbles something along the lines of Raven not being exactly cooperative, and Punk concludes that the old fucker has simply refused to talk to him or Stevie, who is currently sitting right next to Tommy with an equally awfully concerned look on his face.

"Why don't you go and talk to him yourself?" Punk refuses to give up this easily, so he asks for what seems to be a hundredth time, and it's probably close to the truth, they've been sitting here for quite a while. Punk had lost any trace of time or the amount of Pepsis he drank while competing in this stupid-ass bet he was so sure to win.

"Because," Dreamer sighs, as if it should be obvious even to Punk, "he wouldn't talk to anyone. Sure, he picks up the phone, he even manages to have a full-blown long-ass conversation with us, without actually saying anything. And when I ask where the fuck has he disappeared, he swiftly replies that he's busy and just fucking hangs up on me. You know what he's like."

"Yeah," Punk sights too, trying to wipe exhaustion from his face. He does know how good Raven is at talking without saying anything of importance; he remembers it only too well. "You could just go and bang at his door. Like you so kindly suggest I should."

"He would tell us to go fuck ourselves and shut the doors in our faces," Stevie explains patiently. Something in his looks suggests that they have done this before with this exact outcome. _Poor Stevie, _Punk thinks halfheartedly, they probably really are concerned about Raven's well-being if they are willing to go such ridiculous lengths only to get someone to talk to him. But he pities himself much more though, he has absolutely no desire to try to pry something out of the man he expected to never see again. He honestly thought – and was grateful for that – that his and Raven's paths would never cross again after TNA; he's had one hell of a week and when it finally came to an end, a meeting with the Boss, who coincidentally have been his crush back when he was at the tender age of twenty three, would be the last thing he needed. If anything, Punk is sure that even a brief interaction with Raven in his current state would be the last interaction he would ever have in this life.

"And what exactly makes you think he won't tell me the exact same thing?"

Dreamer looks thoughtful. Stevie looks drunk and sad.

Once again Punk wonders just how on earth does he manage to get into situations like that.

"Well…" Tommy starts, clearly not sure how to continue the sentence. He looks so uncomfortable it would actually be amusing given any other circumstances, but now Punk is just mildly curious and more than mildly annoyed. "You too seemed to have some sort of… _different_ relationship back in the day," he finishes lamely.

Stevie throws a warning glance at him, and even though that spices Punk's curiosity, it is clear that he will not be getting any coherent answers from those two any time soon.

"Look, maybe he wants to be left alone. Or he's dead. You shouldn't disturb the dead, Dreamer."

"He's been wanting to be left alone for almost a year now. And as a true friend, I will do anything in my power to disturb him as much as I can."

_Then go and disturb him by yourself, _Punk wants to say, but this would just start the whole fucking discussion all over again and Dreamer and Stevie would be thoroughly convinced in his, Punk's, mental deficiency, and he certainly doesn't want that.

"Okay. I'll do it," He says instead, already regretting his decision, "I'll talk to him - I can't promise you anything would come out of it. And in turn you make a you vs. me match happen." He directs that particular remark at Dreamer, who unsurprisingly doesn't look particularly pleased with the idea.

"You lost a bet, kid, fair and square. I don't have to do _shit._"

"I had to pee!"

"You should've peed _before _you thought you can outdrink me."

"I can just say go fuck yourself and go crash at my hotel. I'm not exactly a man of honor." Punk says, getting up.

"I'm gonna fucking kill Raven when he comes back," Dreamer says under his breath and Punk decides to interpret this as an agreement.

"That somehow gives me some much needed extra motivation," he grins and heads towards the door.

He has plenty of time to think about this ridiculous situation he has gotten himself into on his way to Raven's house.

Firstly, a brief thought of calling Raven crosses his mind; he could warn the old man about his imminent showing up at his doorstep or somehow conspire with him against Dreamer and Stevie. He entertains the idea all the way to his car and has to ultimately dismiss it by the time he starts up the engine; he knows the boss way too well to think he would actually agree to pass up on the possibility to humiliate Punk. Warning Raven about the visit seems too kind from his side, not something he would normally do, he will have to show up regardless of old man's response and giving the enemy a fair warning just isn't practical.

Surely, he has a head start in this situation, but he has absolutely no clue how to use that to his own advantage.

For the first half of the trip he tries to come up with a perfect conversation plan and by the end of his musings Punk is forced to admit that getting Raven back on track isn't his main goal; surviving this encounter is the best he can hope for.

The second half of the trip is spent on self-pitying and cursing the very idea of ever agreeing to meet up with Dreamer instead of crashing at his own hotel immediately after the show.

Punk spends a good hour circling around the neighborhood thinking all the wrong things, things he most definitely should not be thinking of just before meeting his old opponent and crush, things like the first time they have actually met face to face and how excited he was to talk to the man himself, and how amusing Raven found it; or the first match that they had against each other and how he realized then that he is undeniably attracted to Raven; or the time he was stupid enough to subtly hint (as subtly as a lovesick fanboying twenty-three-year old could) where he would like their off-ring interactions to go.

Yeah, that one is especially inappropriate given the situation.

Raven didn't exactly laugh in his face at the proposition, but was pretty damn close.

He was courteous enough to refuse him and let him preserve his Straight Edge lifestyle, as he explained, because the prospect of a relationship with Punk seemed both hilarious and terrifying at the same time.

They never spoke of it again and Punk likes to think that he got over it over the years, but when he finally pulls over a few houses away from Raven's place, he isn't nearly as prepared for the conversation as he would like to be, and spends the rest of the way contemplating possible escape plans in case the conversation with Raven slips into some embarrassing topics.

He doesn't hesitate on the doorstep, he rings the bell right away, like ripping off a band-aid he figures, the sooner he does that the sooner he can be free, so those few minutes it takes for Raven to open the door seem like a pure torture to Punk, he secretly hopes Raven isn't home so he could be relieved from his obligations.

_Keep dreaming, Punkers, Dreamer would most likely make you show up at Raven's door every day until he answers._

When the damned door finally swings open, Punk is already halfway down the stairs, and when he turns around to the sound, he is greeted with a very annoyed scowl on Raven's face. The porch light is bright enough to reveal both of them, and it strikes Punk as weird that Raven doesn't look particularly surprised to see him here. It is more of a "oh no not again" face than anything else, and Punk suddenly wonders who else was sent here by the concerned papa Dreamer and mama Stevie.

"Great. Because _this _is what I needed the most now," Raven mutters, but Punk still hears him. "They are finally running out of people, aren't they?" He speaks up this time, a question obviously meant for Punk to hear.

"Nice to see you too, Raven."

Raven just snorts.

"Yeah, good evening, long time no see, whatever, fuck it," his scowl goes deeper. "Okay, I'll bite: what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know. Was in the neighborhood. Decided to catch up." Punk plays along and makes his way back closer to the door.

"Right. Funny, Joe was in the neighborhood couple weeks ago too. Told him to get his fat ass off my lawn," Raven barks out a laugh, "Then Paul E showed up. On Monday, of all days. Fucking idiot. Said he was in town anyway. I threw a can at him and told to go fuck himself." Raven obviously still loves the sound of his voice, this short rant of his was absolutely uncalled for, but maybe he didn't have a chance to interact with people in a long time, so Punk lets that slide. "What an interesting coincidence."

"What? It's a nice neighborhood."

"It sure is. Come in, since you're here already. Southern hospitality and all that shit." He steps back, only a little, and Punk pushes himself through the narrow gap.

"Straight ahead and to the right," Raven instructs him from behind, "And don't trip over the garbage bag or I'll make you clean that shit up."

Once in what can be called a living room, Punk takes a good look around him, registering the general chaotic mess, beer bottles and dirty plates, a thick layer of dust covering most surfaces, heavy curtains on the windows. It seems like all these months of his self-inflicted exile Raven was spending most of his time in this very room and yet never bothered himself with such trivial aspects of life like cleaning. The TV is covered with dust as well as everything else, and Punk wonders just what the fuck Raven is occupying himself with.

"Fun," he comments then, mostly to himself.

"Come again?" Raven asks, returning to the armchair he obviously spends most of his time in. He aims his stare somewhere behind Punk's back, this must be one very fascinating wall or he's not getting something, because he somehow expects Raven to be giving him that famous exasperated stare of his.

"This is all that _business _you can't tear yourself from even to talk to your friends. Or however you call those people."

"Yeah," Raven doesn't even bother to look up at him. "Doing nothing is harder than it might seem, kid. You'll learn it one day, mark my words."

"Then do something," Punk offers and decides that this should about wrap up his deal with Dreamer. "You must be bored out of your fucking mind by now."

"I'm not your fucking entertainment," Raven scowls at him, interpreting Punk's words some other way. "You are more than welcome to get the fuck out right about now."

"I have approximately as much desire to be here as you – to see me," Punk sits on the edge of the armchair across Raven, checking it for any garbage or food leftovers first. The item of furniture passes the test though, but Punk isn't inclined to trust it just yet. "I've lost a bet."

"Oh?" Raven raises his eyebrow and finally looks at him, showing some interest in the conversation, but obviously not enough to change his tone from that of a complete apathy.

"I tried to outdrink Dreamer."

"You're dumber than you look then, kid." He pauses and thinks for a while. "I thought you didn't drink."

"It was Pepsi, obviously."

"If you lost a drinking contest while sipping fucking soda, then you deserve your fate." Raven almost smiles at him, and this is when Punk thinks that Dreamer's concerns are probably more solid that he wanted to believe. This, however, doesn't change the absurdity of the situation and Raven's (and his own) unwillingness to partake in it, so he decides that this would be a perfect moment to make his exit.

"Well, it was nice seeing you. I'll better leave you to your, err, fun," he says somewhat awkwardly; he isn't sure how to interact with this new weird version of Raven. Surely, he has encountered his depressive days before but this is something entirely different.

"Oh hell no, kid." Raven leans back in his armchair and grins at him. It is a very disconcerting grin, and if Punk knows anything about Raven (and he _does_) it most likely means something decidedly unpleasant is coming right his way. "This is fun. I'm not letting you off the hook this easily now. I'm not above calling Dreamer and telling him you weren't thorough in your attempts to get me back in the ring."

_Son of a bitch._

"Does that mean you will actually come back?"

"I don't know," Raven muses, and he somehow manages to look as if he's mocking Punk, which he probably is. "Why don't you try and convince me?"

* * *

Oh the things I would do rather than working on my bachelor project! But this idea has been bugging me for a while now, so I'm trying to convince myself that once I let it all out I'll be able to concentrate on something actually useful. Yeah, right.

Anyway. Let me know what you thought, reviews are love and motivation :)


	2. Then and Now

**Chapter 2: Then and Now**

[Raven 2nd person]

There are some people who just rub you the wrong way, you think, and not necessarily they had to have done something particularly awful to you, you just suddenly realize that you flat out hate them even if you were perfectly indifferent to them before.

That is a bit of a stretch, Punk has inspired many feelings but indifference, but you decide to ignore that for your own sanity, especially now that you see the kid on your porch, nervously pacing around – Punk? Nervously? – in the middle of the night. He clearly expects to be let inside, at this hour, what does he think this is, a fucking sleepover? You entertain the idea of pretending to be not at home, sleeping, dead or whatever just for the hell of it, but it's the nervousness that gets you. You cannot recall seeing him like this, cocky – sure, insolent and arrogant – always, but never this lost, nervous and out of place, that's gotta be a new one for him. You haven't got a clue what to make of it, but deem it interesting enough to actually open the door.

Not before seeing – just out of spite – how long it would take the kid to give up, tuck his tail and skulk away.

* * *

_"…So I was thinking, maybe we could go out for a drink some time. Of course, you would drink and I would keep you company seeing how I don't drink alcohol…"_

_The kid looks so excited and he obviously anticipates the positive reply, people like him aren't used to rejection, and although this is exactly what he is going to get, you are infinitely amused by the situation. No one has asked you out on an actual date in a very long time, especially not overconfident kids who think they are the greatest thing this world could offer. _

_It was fairly obvious from the start, at least to you, where this acquaintance is gonna go, him asking you out is an odd way around to the same goal, kid wants to sleep with you, you knew it when you first saw him and you know it now, but despite all that doesn't mean you are actually going to follow his neat plan, if anything, that means exactly the opposite. And it's not because you have high fucking moral standards about sleeping with people you work with, hell, you've slept with pretty much everyone in this business who is at least somewhat interesting. It's just as obvious that it won't end here with this kid, his decision to wine and dine you before letting you fuck him is no indication of that, of course, but you can just fucking feel it, letting him in your bed would mean letting in his issues that just seep out of him like sweat, people like him have this awful ability to get close, get under your skin, become as necessary as the air you breathe, and honestly, you have had your share of people like him, enough to last a lifetime and you certainly have enough of your own shit to deal with at any given moment._

_"Why don't you invite me to the movies," you say with heavy sarcasm and look – not without satisfaction – at how his smug pretty face changes in front of your very eyes, and it is a sight to behold, "so it would be like your highschool dates?"_

_The kid just blinks at you, after all, under all his confidence and arrogance he is indeed just that – a kid. You sigh. Fuck knows how do you manage to get into situations like this, you would much rather prefer to laugh in his face and leave the scene, but he looks like he's about to confess his eternal love to you and you don't feel like to listening to that._

_"Yeah yeah, you're honored to meet me and would like to listen to my invaluable advice and stories from my undoubtedly eventful life before I fuck you," the kid is gaping at you now, did he really think he wasn't this fucking obvious, ant that somehow amuses you even more," But I ain't particularly interested."_

_You keep it simple, you are definitely capable of worse, but that's just enough to ruin his confidence at least somewhat, and it's almost a pity, because the kid is all kinds of pretty and judging from his abnormal flexibility you've experienced firsthand, he'd be the best lay you'd had in a while, but you just can't let him sneak into your life and mind and whatever remains of your heart._

_That does not stop you from mocking him about the situation for years to come, though._

* * *

The kid looks considerably more decent than you remember, you have to give him that. Not a single hole in his jeans, you check, all clean and neat and you wonder what the fuck have they done to him over in WWE. You've heard he's a champ of some sort now, not that you keep track, you've been dead at the time, as you like to call it, and honestly, you'd forget about his existence entirely if Dreamer wouldn't mention him in every second fucking conversation. It's not that he hasn't made an impression, but lately you'd much rather forget that the world outside your house exists at all, you're in no mood to go down stupid fucking memory lanes with anyone and most certainly in no mood to come back and do stuff that requires any form of interaction, and the kid showing up here means exactly that.

All while exchanging pointless remarks about your lack of daily activities you're amusing yourself with various plans of making him disappear; you didn't offer him a drink and he should get a hint that he's not at all welcome here, but you've invited him in, so knocking him out and then disposing of the body would not be very hospitable of you.

It takes a while to register in your mind that you are not particularly annoyed with his presence, almost a year of staring at walls and going crazy in your self-inflicted exile must've messed you up bad. Punk seems to have notice that - something in his look says that he is genuinely worried about you, which is amusing in its own way, so you decide that even though you're not his fucking entertainment for the night, he certainly can be yours.

"Why don't you try and convince me," you flash the most disconcerting grin in your arsenal at him, and he actually looks disconcerted. You're enjoying this way too much, you realize, even though you're not entirely sure what kind of convincing do you want because whatever he comes up with isn't going to change your mind.

It would still be fun to see him try, though.

He says nothing to that, and you like the fact that you haven't lost your ability to render him tongue-tied. You could probably poke fun at that, for an old time's sake, you think then.

"You could take me out for a drink as you so wanted that time," you say casually, but from his expression you know that he remembers about which time you're talking about, because he turns his gaze away, and, good god, actually blushes.

Entertainment for a night, indeed.

"Sure thing," he says once he manages to get himself together. "Of course, you will drink and I will keep you company."

He grins looking awfully pleased with himself and you think that there's still a lot to teach him even though he's on the right track.

"Proud of that one?"

"Damn proud," his grin widens, looks like he has finally learned to take a joke made at his expense. Would be about damn time, you think, although half of the fun is lost that way.

You haven't been out in a long time, but it seems as if nothing has changed in the nearest bar where he takes you. You order a beer; you've been off the heavy stuff for approximately as long as you've been dead. You imagine he wants to talk to you about your MIA, about you being dead to the world, after all, that's what Dreamer has sent him to do, but he just stares you. You stare back, you are sure you can wait him out, there's no way the kid could beat you at your own game, and of course you're right.

"Dreamer is worried about you, you know," he says. "He and Stevie gave me a full concerned parents' act to get me to talk to you."

"And you bought it?" You snort.

"Fuck, no," Punk snorts back. "I managed to squeeze a promise for a match out of Dreamer."

"Why do you bother with the likes Dreamer? Aren't you a champion or something now?" You flash your knowledge and he actually looks surprised, but not exactly proud.

"Or something," he mutters, taking a sip of his water. "They're not letting me do shit anyway."

"Did you honestly expect that to change anything?" Yes, definitely lots to learn. You're just not sure if you're the one who should be doing the teaching.

He just glares at you looking very displeased. You hold back a laugh.

"I get that you want to retire," he swiftly changes the topic, "but that doesn't mean you can just stop talking to everyone."

You somehow manage to forget all the witty responses you had stored away for the conversations of this sort and answer almost honestly.

"I don't want to retire, "at least you haven't put that into these exact words yet, "and I am talking to people. I'm talking to you right now."

"You're not talking to Dreamer. And Stevie."

"I _am _talking to them. I'm just not saying what they want to hear."

He nods as if it explains everything and as if he has decided something for himself, although you are pretty sure he has no fucking idea what you meant. But you're not interested in his versions either.

"How's the old fart Vinnie doing?" You ask instead, you figure that once you've actually went out together you have to talk about something, not that you are particularly interested. Honestly, the only thing you are interested in is to get drunk just to annoy him and then see how he handles it. Not exactly a master plan, but you can't think of anything better given such a limited timeframe.

Punk, however, seems to be completely oblivious of your intentions; he goes on telling tales of modern WWE, the kid likes to listen to himself talk way too much, you have that in common, just this time you settle for sitting and pretending to listen to him while downing one beer after another and nodding where appropriate. You are surprised at how much time passes this way, you notice that only when you attempt to get yourself to the bathroom and almost fall to Punk's feet, disrupting his rant. Yeah, you're definitely out of practice.

"And to think you were teasing me about drinking mere few hours ago," he mocks you and he has all the rights to. You want to say something equally witty back, but what comes out is _nnngghh;_ you're an eloquent fucker when you're drunk.

He settles your tab and drags you outside but something doesn't feel quite right to you.

"I forget my jacket inside," you tell him, or at least that's what you think you do, and stumble back inside the bar.

When a moment later you crawl back, he is grinning at you almost menacingly.

"Apparently I was wearing it already," you mutter.

The fucker doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed.

* * *

_It's not that the thought hasn't crossed your mind, you think as you look at him walk away, shoulders slightly slumped, he seems to be beaten and you feel somewhat guilty about it. Even if briefly, it had occurred to you that maybe it won't go tits up this time if you were bothered to try and actually let him get close to you, that maybe this time it would be different and interesting and good, and one part of you wants to give it a shot. Only if to regret it afterwards, then you could mope and suffer to your heart's content, you've long since realized that you find some kind of fucked up joy in being miserable. You could curl in a corner, poor pitiful Raven, and whine about that you just knew how it's gonna end. The other, more cynical part of you is bored of that too, you just tired of bothering either way, you fail to see any point in it. You fail to see any point in anything, really._

_Sometimes you wonder why the fuck you're only forty and already this jaded and where the hell it all went wrong with you._

_Oddly enough, you never stop to think in depth about Punk's offer; it never occurs to you to be concerned with how he feels or what the fuck did he actually want from you._

_You just know, somewhere deep inside, that this wasn't the last you've seen of CM Punk._

* * *

"I'm still not letting you off the hook," you say when he drags your limp carcass onto the bed. "You still have convincing to do.

And then you promptly pass out.


End file.
